Page 104

It's a peculiar state of affairs, especially considering I've spent most of the journey eating everything Iscairn will let me have from his satchel. Ralph's cheese disappeared somewhere a good fifteen miles ago, followed by the last of the bread and two rather miserable apples, and still my stomach seems convinced I've neglected to feed it.

It isn't particularly painful, just uncomfortable enough to keep drawing my attention back to it whenever the road grows quiet.

Perhaps a proper supper will set me right.

The mare picks her way along the frozen road, hooves striking hard against the ruts. Somewhere below us, hidden in the white drop of the valley, ice cracks along a beck with a sharp little snap that carries clear through the air. I hear it as plainly as if it had split beside my boot. Farther up the ridge, pine trees shudder under their caps of snow, and their smell reaches me on the wind.

I suck in a slow breath through my nose as our horses clop over a little stone bridge, the frozen river slipping black and quick beneath us. The road drops into a valley beyond it, where the open hills tighten into drystone walls and cottages hunched beneath the snow.

As we draw nearer, I spot a battered wooden sign nailed crookedly to a post, its charcoal lettering barely visible in the moonlight.

THE TOWNSHIP OF ADDINGHAM: PESTILENCE FREE, BUT T’ALE IS COLD AS WITCH-TITS. KEEP MOVING UNLESS THY PURSE IS FAT.

Iscairn pulls his mount up alongside mine, the leather tack groaning in the frost as his horse huffs a cloud of white into the dark.

“There should be lodgings,” he says. “An inn, if memory serves.”

“Good,” I mutter, shifting my weight in the saddle. “At this point, I’d accept a pig shed and a blanket.”

The amber lenses of his mask turn to me, catching the dim gleam of the snow, but he says nothing—only flicks the reins and nudges his mount past the post.

We follow the narrow lane around the churchyard wall, our horses’ hooves cracking against the frozen mud as the road opens into a little square half-buried beneath snow. Most of the buildings are dark, though there's a fair bit of noise coming from a crooked timber inn at the far end, where two bare oaks stand on either side of the entrance, and the upper storey juts out over the road.

A painted sign swings above the door, its lettering too faded to make out beneath the frost, but there's no mistaking that the place is open. Candlelight glows through the leaded windows, and even from horseback I can hear a fiddle playing somewhere inside, almost drowned out by men singing along with considerably more enthusiasm than skill.

The snow outside has been trampled into muddy slush, and a steady stream of people comes and goes through the doorway, letting out bursts of laughter and the smell of woodsmoke whenever it opens. After the miserable silence of Beswick, there's something rather comforting about seeing so many people going about their evening without a care for the pestilence.

“Seems they're doing their best to keep warm,” I say, drawing my mare alongside Iscairn.

“Ale is cheaper than coal,” he replies, steering his horse towards the low archway beside the building.

We duck beneath the low beam as the horses step into the stable, bringing the smell of cold leather and warm dung in around us. The roof sits low enough that Iscairn has to bend to keep the brim of his hat from scraping the rafters, and I nearly crack my knee against the doorframe when my mare sidles away from the dark.

A lantern swings from one of the beams, throwing oily orange light over two shaggy dray horses and a man slumped sideways against a bin with a jug tucked in the crook of his arm.

For a moment, I take him for dead.

Then one of the drays stamps, and the man lifts his head, blinking at us through rheumy eyes.

“Stall’s fourpence,” he mumbles, waving one grubby hand towards the back of the stable. “Water’s froze. Straw’s there. Oats if they need ’em.”

Iscairn swings down from his saddle, his boots landing heavily in the straw, and reaches beneath his cloak as the old man squints up at him, the jug still tucked against his ribs. The coin leaves Iscairn’s hand with a small flash of silver and drops neatly into the mouth of the jug.

The old man looks down, tips the jug towards the lantern, and blinks twice at the gleam inside. “Aye,” he says, after a moment. “God bless whoever it is you pray to, sir. Mind the step by the taproom. Bit of sick on it.”

“Delightful,” I mutter, bracing one hand against the front of the saddle and swinging my leg over the pommel.

When Ralph’s mare noses at my sleeve, I pat her, tuck my blackened fingers into the folds of Martha’s apron, and follow Iscairn towards the narrow passage at the back of the stable.

The old man wasn’t lying. I hitch Martha’s skirts clear of my ankles and step over the half-frozen puddle of vomit spread across the second stone riser.

Iscairn reaches the door first. The wood gives with a dull groan, and the taproom breathes its foul little heart straight into my face.

It’s so warm. Not pleasantly warm, either. It’s thick warmth. Wet warmth. Warmth full of tallow smoke, sour beer, damp wool, and whatever meat has been turning over the fire long enough to become everybody’s business. My mouth waters despite everything I've eaten today. Perhaps we can persuade the innkeeper to send some supper up to our room.

Iscairn stoops beneath the lintel and heads for the bar, leaving me to follow in the wake of his cloak with one hand pressed firmly over my mouth. A great, bawdy fellow lurches backwards as we pass, sloshing ale from his tankard, and I twist aside to avoid him, though not quickly enough to save Martha’s skirts.

By the time we reach the counter, my eyes sting from the smoke, my mouth tastes of it, and I've had quite enough of being jostled by drunken strangers.